Absence, A Double Drabble
fansee wrote this little double drabble for the lovely and talented brianslave68. If you haven't looked at or read all of the presents exchanged at qaf_giftxchnge, run right over there now and do so.
Oh, yes, and by the way, if you look at Absence there, you may notice that it gained a couple of words in the meantime, but it's still all for brianslave68.
Socks left on the floor. A shirt draped over the back of the couch. A book, open in the middle, face down on my expensive coffee table. A sketch, half-finished, left on the kitchen counter. His voice on the phone, distracting me while I tried to find the right words for a radio ad. Waking up half-smothered by his body sprawled over me. Sometimes I missed those things more than I missed his teeth nipping my tit, his eager mouth on my dick, or his soft hair between my fingers as my dick pounded into his ass. Sometimes I didn’t.
A soft voice saying pretty words. A rose and chocolates. The sound of a solo violin, playing in the chill street air. Laughing with friends in a coffee house. Fucking on the rooftop, under a starry ceiling. I have what I want, all day, every day. Then I sleep, and in my sleep my legs tangle with longer legs, and a baritone voice tells me to turn over. A large hand covers my dick, and clever fingers pull and press and slide. I struggle toward wakefulness, my dick weeping. Sometimes I turn to my bedmate for solace. Sometimes I don’t.
Oh, yes, and by the way, if you look at Absence there, you may notice that it gained a couple of words in the meantime, but it's still all for brianslave68.
Socks left on the floor. A shirt draped over the back of the couch. A book, open in the middle, face down on my expensive coffee table. A sketch, half-finished, left on the kitchen counter. His voice on the phone, distracting me while I tried to find the right words for a radio ad. Waking up half-smothered by his body sprawled over me. Sometimes I missed those things more than I missed his teeth nipping my tit, his eager mouth on my dick, or his soft hair between my fingers as my dick pounded into his ass. Sometimes I didn’t.
A soft voice saying pretty words. A rose and chocolates. The sound of a solo violin, playing in the chill street air. Laughing with friends in a coffee house. Fucking on the rooftop, under a starry ceiling. I have what I want, all day, every day. Then I sleep, and in my sleep my legs tangle with longer legs, and a baritone voice tells me to turn over. A large hand covers my dick, and clever fingers pull and press and slide. I struggle toward wakefulness, my dick weeping. Sometimes I turn to my bedmate for solace. Sometimes I don’t.